


sounder

by xathira



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Horror, Other, Pigs, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27163345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira
Summary: These little piggies went to market...These little piggies should have stayed home.Wirt and Greg find themselves in the company of a jolly porcine caravan, and everything is exactly as pleasant as it seems.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24





	1. little lost piglets

**Author's Note:**

> A group of pigs is called a "sounder." Credit for title idea to Whiggity.

It’s a beautiful day to be outside. The sky arches clear blue across several acres of vibrant tents like a lid on a jar of gleaming candies. The sun hangs half-past its apex, though not quite ready to set. Laughter and conversation buzz amidst a lively, diverse crowd that pours toward vendors and marvels and cheap fair rides in excited droves. Several red-written banners decorated with images of pigs and vegetables flutter at the four corners of this loosely-delineated hubbub to advertise the fun: SUSSHIRE FAIR.

Toward the middle of the square, two boys walk alongside people and animal-folk enjoying the day. The older boy wears a dark blue cloak and a red felt cone on his head; the younger sports a teapot the same way he’d sport a hat. Compared to the happy throng milling around them, they are noticeably dirt-stained and hungry. The boy with the cloak peers continuously over his shoulder, as if he’s missing something that keeps sliding out of his peripheral vision. The boy with the teapot trots ahead of him with eyes as round as the ferris wheel spinning slow and grand at the heart of the fairgrounds.

“WIRT!” he shouts to the elder. “They have so many rides here! We gotta do the ferris wheel, and the carousel, and that big slide…” 

“Fair rides are dangerous, Greg,” Wirt answers reflexively. His attention snags on a booth selling fried treats, and it takes obvious effort for him to swallow and pull his focus back to his little brother. “We don’t know when’s the last time they were inspected… they could collapse at any moment.”

“Pssh, Worry-Wirt.”

As a rule, Greg _loves_ fairs. He loves the bustling brouhaha of strangers strolling around and the social energy that electrifies the atmosphere; he loves the overwhelming fog of food-smells that wash over him, sweet-savory and salty-sour; he loves the tents where people sell their wares, and the barkers beckoning him to play their games, and the tapestries of color that transform ordinary fields and patches of dirt into worlds of fun. Fairs _rule._ If Greg had a choice, he’d choose having a fair in his backyard every time—unless the other options were having a dragon or a very, very cool water slide. It is impossible to have a bad time at a fair.

Wirt, however, seems to be doing his best to try.

The boys are in the Unknown. They don’t recall getting lost, although they are certainly quite lost. Neither of them is sure how long they’ve been wandering, just the two of them, without the trustiest bullfrog in the world or sassy Beatrice the bluebird. Greg feels confident that their friends will find them, eventually; Wirt gave up that hope ages ago. The older boy gives up more hope each day that passes. Greg worries about him. Hence, the fair.

“Hey, Wirt! You wanna do the strong-arm contest?” Greg yanks on his big brother’s wrist with one hand and points to a high striker situated toward the eastern wing of the fairgrounds. As he speaks, a dainty kitten-lady wearing a bonnet and a yellow sundress slams her mallet down on the lever and elicits a proud, brassy ring from the tower’s bell. Greg grins widely at the sound. “If _she_ can ring the bell, I bet you totally can too!”

Wirt’s gaze had dragged up from his shoelaces and the long span of his shadow at the sound of the chime. His mouth twists like the legs of a balloon animal that a nearby clown is shaping. “No, Greg… I don’t really feel like playing games.”

“Not a game,” Greg insists, “a _contest._ And not even a hard one, if that little kitten could ring the bell.”

Wirt grimaces harder. “Gee, thanks for the encouragement.” 

He pulls his forearm out of Greg’s hold and shuffles in a new direction, shoulders hunched under his navy-hued cloak. Greg glances one more time at the high striker—and the giggling cat accepting her prize—and scampers to catch up with his sibling, yammering excitedly along the way.

“You want to try to win a goldfish? Or let somebody guess your weight? Ooo, or you can throw darts at that balloon wall—”

“I’m not interested in any carnival games,” Wirt snaps, patience stretched thinner than a rubber band. At Greg’s raised eyebrows he rubs his face tiredly and makes an effort to soften his tone. “They’re all rigged. You know that, right? It’s impossible to win any of them… and trying to is a pointless existential exercise, doomed to fail. I’ve had enough failure for today.”

Greg understands this. Wirt had tried to find them a place to stay that wasn’t under the moonlight and the boughs of a tree, but both cottages they’d found on the way here had been destroyed and abandoned—no better than roughing it beneath the stars. The only paths in the woods were those tamped down by hundreds of meandering animal feet, which left Wirt frustrated and Greg complaining about his sore legs. A squirrel had stolen the last of the snacks Greg kept in his pocket. Wirt did not trust the weird berries or speckled mushrooms that grew in abundance through these lonesome lands, so the boys were unbearably hungry. It had rained two nights ago, and their damp clothes still haven’t fully dried.

They need rest. They need _dinner._ When the aroma of popcorn and cotton candy caught them on the morning breeze, Greg had sprinted heedlessly ahead. Wirt tripped after him at a considerably slower pace—weak from his “hypoglycemia” and “high metabolism” or whatever Mom called it—but he had no rebuke for Greg once they’d broken from the forest’s shadow. How could he be upset? Greg had led them straight to a _fair!_

If they win a few games, they can trade their prizes for food tickets. Or money for food tickets. Or they could win food! Opportunities surround them; all they have to do is stay positive, and things will turn around. They _have_ to turn around. 

“So that was a no to the strength-contest, a no to the goldfish, and you already said no to the matching game, and you _didn’t_ want to talk to that crystal-ball lady…” Greg ticks things off his fingers, adjusting his teapot cap when it slips down his forehead. Wirt isn’t listening to him; he won’t stop glancing down the rows of tents and lean-to stalls as if searching for a way out, hugging his cloak anxious-tight around himself. “Hello? Brother-O-Mine? We’ve been at this fair for hours, I think, and we haven’t been havin’ much fun.”`

“H-Has it been hours?” Wirt mutters. He scratches the rat’s nest of hair hidden under his tall red cap and squints up at the perfectly blue sky. The sun has crept closer to the earth, tinting the opposite horizon orange-pink. His stomach growls (Greg’s growls too) and he stops to pivot a quick circle in the middle of the trampled-grass aisle. “How long have we been here? Where are Beatrice and your frog?”

“Our frog,” Greg corrects him automatically. 

“Our frog?” Wirt weakly repeats. He rubs his knuckles into the plum-colored bags under his eyes and says something that he’s already said before, about thirty minutes ago when he’d refused to let Greg try a pony ride. “We have to get out of here.”

So Greg says what _he_ said thirty minutes ago. “Not yet! Pleeease?” Puppy-dog eyes are activated with maximum power. “I know we don’t got any money for food, but I’m feelin’ lucky. I can win us some prizes! Let me at ‘em!” 

Wirt smiles at him in a sad way. “Oh, to have your boundless optimism… maybe if I could see things your way, I might find a little hope.” 

“That’s the spirit, brother-pants!” Greg beams, ignoring his sibling’s melancholy as per usual. Determined to locate a game that he and Wirt have a chance at, he pushes Wirt forward and promises not to get distracted by rides, or the petting zoo, or the tent selling shoes made to look like tiny houses.

They exit an alley packed with dog-headed people, who are admiring little whistles at an instrument stand that produce a pitch nobody else can hear. Greg valiantly resists the urge to call any of them a “good boy.” He’s starting to feel the fuzzy-grey, kinda-sick, kinda-faint grossness that Wirt describes whenever it’s been too long since he’s eaten. If _Greg_ is feeling that terrible from missing a few breakfasts, his heart cracks to wonder what his brother is going through. No wonder Wirt isn’t having fun—his starved body is probably eating itself! They gotta find a game _fast._

Wirt wearily scuffs his shoes past a stand stacked with different pies on display. The banner hanging overhead reads GUESS THE PIE, TAKE THE PIE, and features the silhouette of a cheerful pig’s head. Each tight golden-crust lattice looks the same, with no space between the geometrically layered seams, but Greg can detect mouthwatering notes of apple, blackberry, blueberry, and strawberry-rhubarb hanging clearly in the sweet-steamed air. The jolly patissier behind the racks waves to Greg and winks, as if he knows how easy this “contest” is. 

If they win, they won’t have to worry about trading tickets in for a meal—they’ll have a meal right then and there! It’s a fabulous idea, killing two birds in the bush, or however Dad says it.

Greg tugs the hem of his brother’s cloak and digs in his heels like a mule. “Wirt, c’mon! I _know_ we can win this one! Wouldn’t it be great to have pie for lunch?”

He expects Wirt’s spirits to lift, for some sunlight to poke through the clouds in his expression, because this contest is _easy_ and there’s no way they can lose. They’ll both feel so much better once their bellies are full! Except Wirt stares at the pie stand with confusion, not like someone blissfully inhaling the perfume of baked fruit filling, and instead of walking closer to the grinning chef and his wares Wirt is tensing up to _bolt._

“What’s wrong?” Greg asks, his tummy dropping to the sun-browned grass. “Is it because they don’t have coconut cream?”

Wirt takes Greg’s hand and charges into a sprint so unexpectedly that Greg’s arm strains in its socket and he has to churn his shorter legs to keep up. Now _Greg_ is the one who’s confused. He runs as close to Wirt as he can to avoid bumping into an eggplant lady and her scarecrow beau, a wooden donkey that someone is walking on a leash, a gaggle of goose-headed maidens who honk and leap out of the way when Wirt bowls by them. 

In his haste, the taller boy catches his hip on a produce cart, knocking prize-winning gourds and watermelons and a bunch of other assorted fruits and vegetables into the path. Patrons shout angrily at his back, yet Wirt does not apologize or slow. He cuts directly through a narrow alley cluttered by wares that haven’t been unboxed and shoves surprised vendors out of his way. Arms that reach out to halt him are ducked under. The brothers’ hectic flight attracts the ire of four men dressed as cartoonish British constables that wave their clubs in Wirt’s direction and order him to _Stop, young man!_ and still Wirt pushes on, desperate as a rat trapped in a maze.

Greg is quickly out of breath—and judging by Wirt’s harsh panting, Wirt is almost out of breath, too—so the younger boy sucks as much air into his puffing lungs as he can to shout.

“Hey! Where are we going in such a hurry? Did you want to try the strength contest, after all?”

They break into the clearing where the petting zoo is. Wirt skids to a stop long enough to point at the penned animals, his arm trembling. “Greg, what kind of animals are people petting?”

Greg tilts his head, nonplussed. “Uh… they’re pigs?”

“All of them?” Wirt persists. His tone is low, intense, and close to tears. 

“Yeah. All of ‘em.” Greg hadn’t realized that his sibling would be so disappointed by the homogenous petting zoo. “But! They’re all different kinds of pigs! Red and pink and black-and-white… did you know that the pink pigs we always see are only pink because they rubbed off all their other colors? That’s a rock fact—”

“And the carousel, was that all pigs, too?” Wirt drops to his knees to clasp Greg’s shoulders and intensely search Greg’s face.

“I think so. We didn’t really spend that much time by the carousel, ‘cause you said all the rides are dangerous.” 

The subtle note of reproach that Greg exudes bounces off Wirt’s overlarge ears. When Wirt gulps, his throat bobs like an apple plunked into a bucket. He peers up at the darkening violet-blue spread over them, the canvased tents, the hundreds of animated fair-goers, the dusty ground with its discarded litter, and licks his lips as if his mouth has gone dry as dirt. “I… I’ve b-been seeing things since we got here, w-weird little… little _flickers_ of stuff, but m-maybe I’m just exhausted. Maybe it’s all the normal strangeness of the Unknown, and _I_ am at fault, the victim of _jamais vu_...” 

He devolves into taut, fearful murmuring, posture wilting. When Greg feels his forehead, Wirt’s skin is hot and damp under his palm. _Not good._

“You might need a time-out,” Greg informs Wirt gently. “Wait here, I’ll go back to the pie-stand and win us a blackberry pie. You’d like that, right? Yummy blackberries?” 

“No,” Wirt whimpers. “We should… stick together. I don’t want to lose you. We’ll w-win that game together, okay?”

Renewed enthusiasm makes Greg feel big, strong, and responsible. When he totes Wirt next to him, the older brother does not complain, breathing in and out of his nose as if consciously working to keep himself calm. 

They steer clear of the paths where Wirt had caused a ruckus, in case those constables are still searching for them. Unfortunately, that means Greg gets a bit turned around… he’s amazed at the sheer vastness of this fair, how there’s _so much to see_ that it’s possible to get lost even after ambling around all day. A zig down _this_ alley, populated by popcorn salesmen and jugglers… a zag down _that_ narrow road, with livestock farmers showing off prize hogs… 

Greg doesn’t find the pie stand. Instead, he finds something better: a caravan on the outskirts of the Susshire Fair.

The circle of jewel-toned canvas-covered wagons is situated about twenty-five yards from the fairgrounds proper, backing up to the looming forest—clearly a group of people who’d traveled here to sell their wares and partake in the festivities. Curls of pale grey smoke rise up from the middle of the gathering; Greg can smell dinner from all the way over here, scents that are just as mouthwatering—if not _more so_ —than the myriad odors he and Wirt had been inhaling all day. 

“We made it out,” Wirt says, relieved. “D’you suppose the folks over there will give us directions to the closest town?” 

From this distance the motley wagons are parked too closely together for Greg to spy on any activity, but that is a problem easily solved. The youngest boy takes off in a beeline for the caravan.

“Greg—you’re going too fast—!”

“I see somebody! Maybe he’ll feed us!”

A stranger in comfortable peasant’s clothing unknowingly leads the way, evidently headed home from the fair. He marches up the rungs installed on the back of a ruby-red wagon that’s emblazoned with dancing golden pigs, rather than attempting to shimmy between the inches-thin junction between the wagons on either side; then, he lifts the heavy curtains hung over the wagon’s entrance and disappears within. 

Greg is centimeters away from flinging back the curtains himself when Wirt snatches him by the scruff.

“What do you think you’re doing?! We don’t live here, we don’t know these people—”

“You’re the one who wanted to ask for directions,” Greg asserts. “What’s the big deal? They’ll be friendly.”

“And h-how’re you so sure they’ll be friendly?” Wirt asks. He’s puffing pathetically, about to keel over, cheeks nearly as ruddy as the wagon’s canvas. Standing upright is too hard, apparently, so he has to rest his weight on his knees and whine at the wheel-marked grass. He’s in _no_ shape to be picky about where he’s having supper tonight, Greg thinks. “We can’t just… _barge in._ That’s… that’s rude. And w-we don’t _know_ that they’ll f-fork over any food if we don’t have money to _pay_ them…”

“Okay, I’ll ask.” 

_“No—”_

Greg wiggles away from Wirt’s frantically reaching grasp and through the wagon’s flap. Wirt has no choice but to clamber up the ladder behind him, swearing under his breath when he hits his shin in the sudden muffled darkness.

Because it _is_ dark—really dark, darker than Greg expected when he darted inside. He sweeps his feet around, searching for objects on the wagon floor like he does in his room at home when he has to get out of bed to pee, but his shoes encounter nothing. All he hears is Wirt dithering at his shoulder, so the stranger who’d come through before must have already climbed back out into the center of the caravan. Was _this_ wagon the stranger’s house? Had they found the fair-equivalent of a trailer park? Pretty weird that there’s no furniture in here…

A sliver of light marks the wagon’s exit. Greg gladly gallops past the curtains and down a ramp, following the delectable aroma of home-cooking. Wirt clatters at his heels—too closely—and when he trips on the wooden plank he falls into Greg and sends both of them tumbling gracelessly to the ground in a heap of limbs.

… limbs which are _not_ the shape that they were when the brothers went into the wagon.

Greg notices first, rolling out from under Wirt to hop onto four wee cloven hooves. His teapot hasn’t left his head, but the rest of him… is powder-pink, covered in finest fuzz, with a round pot belly and stubby legs. When he peers over his shoulder, he is _delighted_ to see a curly tail spiraling above his new haunches. Laughter bubbles behind his voice. “Uh, Wirt?” 

Across from him, Wirt groans and struggles to his own little hooves. He’s as pink as Greg is, though he sports a set of tiny budding tusks on either side of his snout. His gnome-hat balances betwixt two huge satiny ears. When Greg crosses his eyes, he is disappointed to see that he lacks the protruding teeth that his brother’s been gifted with.

It takes a moment for the older sibling to formulate words upon catching sight of his transformed sibling. “Greg… you’re… y-you’re a…”

Obviously, Greg has to finish the sentence for him—which he does, brightly. “I’m a _PIG!”_

Wirt screams and it sounds more like a high-pitched squeal. Immediately he is trotting in rings around his little brother, tottering slightly as he adjusts to walking on four legs. “How?! All we did was walk through the wagon—I _knew_ we shouldn’t have trespassed, we’re cursed—”

His hysteria draws in the attention of the surrounding crowd… who are _also_ pigs, some wearing accessories like tophats or pretty bows or modest jewelry. They are all busy with different piggy business: rolling in dirt or dropping more wood on the fire pits scattered around the campground, chatting or transporting supplies from one wagon to another. A couple had noticed the boys careening out of the red wagon and stopped to watch the spectacle; Wirt’s shouting distracts more of them, and soon many pigs are ambling up to discern what all the fuss is about.

“New faces? Did Mother bring them in?”

“Oh dear—we have some unexpected guests!”

Greg preens under the spotlight, fascinated by all the talking swine. A group of piglets about his age push their way through the sturdy legs of the adult hogs to ogle at him, and he waves a hoof at them in hello. “Hi! My name’s Greg, and this is my big brother, Wirt—”

Wirt abruptly shoves Greg down and stands protectively over him, quadruped frame shaking. He stares wildly out at the intrigued porcine masks, brandishing his baby tusks. “St-Stay back! We didn’t mean to trespass… well, my brother did, b-but he’s just a kid, so… let us go?”

A portly boar with a squished face and tusks that swoop outward like a mustache grunts down at Wirt, unimpressed. “Thin piglets, aren’t they?” he observes. “When was the last time you young fellows ate a decent meal?”

Wirt is dumbfounded by the sympathy in that deep, husky tone. Greg takes advantage of his sibling’s quiet to jut his head out from between Wirt’s forelegs and address the boar. 

“Two days,” he replies. “Or… three days? At least three nights. I think. Wirt, do you remember—”

“We need to leave,” Wirt croaks. The pigs around him frown, disappointed or worried for him or both. Several of the sows begin to cajole him, bustling into his personal space to fix his crooked hat and nudge at his ears like doting old women. “I d-don’t want to be a pig, we need to get out of here!”

“What’s wrong with being a pig?” Greg inquires, genuinely confounded. “We don’t have to take baths, if we’re pigs. We can eat whatever we want! And you have TUSKS! Boy, I hope I get tusks when I’m a grown-up pig...”

Wirt shakes off the attentions of the sows and huddles more over Greg, shuddering at the good-natured chortles that the sounder of pigs makes at his unnecessary panic. “This is wrong, Greg, we have to get out of here—”

“You’ve said that all day!” Greg fires back, cross. He usually doesn’t snap at his older brother, but his tummy is totally empty and he’s pooped from being on his feet all day and they are _finally_ among nice people in a camp that is fragrant with spices and baked goods and roasting meat and smoke. This is the final straw that broke the camel’s back! “I want to stay, and have dinner before we go out in the woods again. Please? The tinkerers will feed us—won’t you?”

He directs this last question to the boar with the mustache-tusks, who smiles warmly and nods. “Of course. There’s plenty to go around. We always welcome guests to the caravan.”

“You’re all PIGS!” Wirt squalls, stating the obvious, and all of them share another round of laughter.

“Not forever, dear,” a sow soothes kindly. She and another lady-pig stand on either side of Wirt to guide him firmly toward one of the fire pits, where blankets woven in rainbows of yarn are spread out for seating. “When you leave the circle, you’ll be whatever you were before you entered. This is simply part of the spell that keeps us safe and happy here. It’s how Mother’s magic works.”

“Who’s Mother?” inquires Greg, skipping to and fro now that he isn’t pinned beneath his sibling. “Is she everybody’s mom?”

“Mother is Mother,” a piglet littler than Greg states, as if this is obvious. 

“You two will meet her,” a black-and-white sow promises. “She always joins us for meals. Actually, she’s the one responsible for keeping all of us fed! I’m positive she’ll like you, no one is as friendly as she is.”

Wirt is seated stiffly on a blanket, his spine ram-rod straight and nostrils flared. In the firelight, the whites of his eyes glow stark orange. He pants shallow and fast. Greg fears he might pass out, if not for the communal press of pig-bodies that plop down by them both to wait for dinner and Mother to appear. 

After everyone is seated, the lovely tinkling of windchimes interrupts the relaxed conversation that peppers the clearing. All eyes go to the largest wagon of the set: a grand gold-draped vessel painted with sunflowers and glinting with rhinestones. Chimes and bells hang over the entrance, disturbed by a woman’s hand parting the fabric. The hand is followed by a graceful arm… and then the tallest lady that Greg has ever seen reveals herself to the caravan among a smattering of heartfelt greetings.

“Good evening, Mother!”

“Welcome back, Mother!”

“How was the fair today, Mother?” 

The woman’s focus glides across the campground and alights upon Greg. Her expression blooms, and the boy-turned-pig understands at once why she is called “Mother.”

She _radiates_ maternal energy, a living embodiment of pure comfort and fathomless love. She must stand at least eight feet tall, yet her feminine elegance is far from imposing; Greg feels that he could curl up in her lap and be safe from every nightmare, every bully, everything bad in this world. Freckles dot her creamy skin like spilled brown sugar. Her eyes are cornflower blue, brimming with compassion. Her cornsilk hair bounces in loose curls to her hips, glistening gold where the firelight strokes it. Her dress is an artful patchwork of calico flower-prints that remind Greg of the quilts his mom sews. She smells like fresh bread and flowers and something Greg can’t exactly pinpoint… a hint of nostalgia, of home, that droops comfortably in his belly.

When she speaks, her voice is sun-kissed honey and lullabies. “Ah… I see we have two visitors. What a treat! Are they staying the night with us?”

“We have plenty of bedrolls,” the black-and-white sow by Wirt whispers before Greg can ask. “There’s more than enough room for everyone. Better than sleeping out in the forest, anyway.”

Greg’s heart swells with hope. _Bedrolls?_ Cozy campfires to chase away nighttime’s unpleasant chill? AND they’re invited to dinner? The only way this could get any better is if he could grow tusks like Wirt! He bounces on his haunches and opens his mouth to beg Wirt to stay—

And is cut off by a terrible, wrenching shriek.

It’s Wirt, flattened to the earth and _quaking,_ jaw unhinged as his lungs compress every square inch of oxygen out. The pigs of the caravan perk their ears and startle at his outburst, glancing at each other and Mother, but Greg can’t do anything because Wirt screeches _again,_ raw with a terror that claws up from his marrow. He labors to make himself as small as possible, to shrink and disappear. Fear pours off him, sour as pennies and vinegar. Wirt screams despite the sows hushing him and the piglets cowering and the boars ordering him to _calm down,_ he screams until his vocal cords strain, and then he rasps out a keen that hurts to hear. Greg tries to follow Wirt’s line of petrified sight to ascertain what has his sibling seized in a fit… and squints in confusion.

“W… Wirt? What are you…?”

There is nothing scary anywhere. Wirt is staring at _Mother._


	2. dissonance

Greg’s heart drums quick behind his sternum, sped faster and faster by the volume of Wirt’s unrelenting horror. He has seen Wirt afraid before—Wirt is afraid _all the time,_ he’s a regular fraidy cat—but Greg has never seen his brother like _this._ This is not the kooky sort of haunted-house scared that Greg can laugh at, the kind that he has to remind Wirt isn’t real. This is _deep_ scary, the rated-R-movie-Greg-isn’t-allowed-to watch-scary, and Greg can’t tell Wirt to brush it off and be brave because the longer Wirt freaks out the more sick Greg’s hollow tummy feels. Wirt’s fear is infectious. Loud. Something must be very wrong, Wirt would not be acting like _this_ otherwise—

Mother moves across the campground on her long legs in four strides and kneels before Wirt like their real mom does when she has to inspect a boo-boo. Pigs shuffle respectfully backward to afford her and her voluminous skirts more room. She is calm as a garden pond; she speaks orders as if she is reading off a grocery list. “Put a kettle on. Fetch the shock blanket. Bring the biscuit tin.”

Three pigs waddle off to comply. Wirt hyperventilates violently, eyelids squeezed shut and leaking tears. “D-Don’t come any closer,” the young boar pleas in a high, papery rasp amidst frantic gasps for air. “Don’t, p-please, I didn’t mean to come here…”

“Wirt, what’s wrong?” Greg has to maneuver around the cotton textile tent of Mother’s dress to bump his snout into Wirt’s trembling shoulder. “You can tell me, I won’t make fun of you. Promise.”

Wirt whimpers and pitches his voice lower, keeping his eyes closed. “ _Greg,_ it’s n-n-not safe here—”

Mother places her hand (large enough for Greg to comfortably rest in) upon Wirt’s brow, feeling the sizzle of his temperature. At the contact, Wirt goes silent. Goes limp. Alarm tangles Greg’s stomach.

“OH MY GOSH! He fainted! Get him an orange!” Greg stamps on the mended hem of Mother’s skirts and tugs on the fabric with his teeth for her attention. “Our mom always gets him an orange when he needs sugar, or an apple, or some beef jerky from her purse! He needs a snack _right now,_ or he’ll get even worse…” A lump hardens halfway between Greg’s heart and his throat. Wirt needed him to be responsible, but instead Greg had been dazzled by the fair and the novelty of being a pig. Greg should’ve been more serious about finding food or winning games. Mom would be so disappointed in him…

A russet sow trots up to Mother with an expertly knitted blanket. Mother takes it, smiling at the sow in thanks, and efficiently swaddles Wirt like a pork burrito: unresponsive hooves tucked in and his head lolling free. Then she gently picks Wirt up—slow enough that his hat stays in place—and cradles him as she might a human baby, careful to secure him in her arms. Her cool take-charge demeanor is unruffled… but a vague tension creeps into her expression as she stands and peers down at a fretting Greg. 

“This boy,” she begins, petting Wirt’s ears, “would you say he’s a bit of a… pessimist?”

She says “pessimist” delicately, as if it is impolite to utter in public. The pigs around Greg exchange knowing glances, though the new piglet is too upset to heed the conspiratorial mutters they trade in the background. “He has a fast metabolism,” he blurts, not understanding what Mother is getting at and far more concerned with the fact that his sibling is _unconscious._ “This happens when he doesn’t eat, ‘cause he needs more fuel. Doesn’t anybody have an orange?”

“Hmm…” Mother’s eyebrows drop thoughtfully. Her chicory-blue irises meet those of the helpful ginger sow stationed by her knee, who shrugs as best as a quadrupled can. "...We'll see." 

“See about what?”

While Greg awaits an appropriate response from either of them (vis-à-vis a snack for Wirt), Mother turns to march away from the collective campfires and toward a green wagon with a white roof, parked right next to her personal trailer. Her bare feet hardly leave an impression in the dust. The russet sow saunters dutifully next to her, and a piebald pig bringing a biscuit tin peels from the crowd and follows them both. Greg scrambles after them on his much shorter legs; Wirt is _his_ responsibility—he can't lose track!

The green wagon's door swings to admit the trio and the piglet, built to accommodate those with hooves in place of hands. Its interior smells of medicinal herbs and clean laundry. Wooden chests labeled “bandages” and “apothecary” line up along one wall, dented after shifting over many travels. Even though Mother had needed to stoop to enter, the roof arches magically above her to lend her several inches of room, and the walls have somehow shifted to allow the giantess and her two loyal pigs to arrange themselves side-by-side. Greg can't help but ogle the space, so cavernous compared to his compact frame. He wouldn’t mind sleeping _here…_

The biscuit-bringer sets the tin on a “linens” chest and deftly lights a gas lamp, illuminating the interior with a drowsy bourbon-hued haze. Wirt is laid on a low bed at the rear of the wagon. Greg zooms to his side immediately, propping his forelimbs onto the cot so he can look for signs of life. 

“Wirt? They have snacks for you… wake up please…”

“Mother, is he one of Those?” the russet sow whispers. She's trying not to let Greg hear her, but Greg hears her just fine, thank you. 

The tall, tall woman stoops to observe Wirt once more; a curtain of her fairytale hair drapes across Greg as she leans closer, and the piglet feels as though _he_ is the one being tucked into bed. "I think he might be," Mother sighs regretfully. She runs a soothing finger down the bridge of Wirt’s snout; he does not so much as twitch. "Someone should stay with him, to explain things when he wakes up."

"Explain what things?" Greg demands. He remembers the biscuit tin behind him, and rushes to snatch it and dump it on the cot. "Are there cookies in this? No raisins, right? Wirt says he'll die before he eats raisins."

Never has this particular preference of Wirt carried such portentous consequences. Greg's tiny hooves scrape uselessly at the tin, and his jaws can't get the right angle on the lid; ere he can work himself into a tearful frustration, Mother tactfully opens the container and places it back on the linens chest. 

Greg’s superior pig nose tells him what the piebald pig fetched without him having to check: no oatmeal raisin cookies, _thank goodness._ Only buttermilk drop biscuits, like what Greg uses to soak up gravy for breakfast.

“Here you go, Wirt… open wide…”

"Little pig, what is your name?" Mother asks, watching Greg try and fail to push a snack into Wirt's slack face. She tugs softly on Greg’s curly tail to distract him from his futile task. "Wirt… he's your brother, isn't he?" 

_Half-brother._ A phrase that plays automatically in Greg's mind, despite the fact he hasn't heard Wirt say it in a long time. "I'm Greg. I'm… 'sposed to take care of him when he's not feeling good…"

"Who takes care of you, then?" Mother rubs his back. Sunshine seeps into Greg's tired, sore muscles and massages his anxiety into submission. “It seems to me that you boys have been wandering, all alone, with no one to look after you. That’s no way for such fine boys to grow up.”

“I guess… we _have_ been wandering…” 

"I'll take over for you," the russet sow offers, nudging the piglet supportively. "My name's Lucy. I had a tough first time in camp, too, just like your brother—I can catch him up to speed. After he's had something to eat and drink, I'm sure he'll come around."

"You can save him a spot at the trough," adds Mother. Her countenance sweetens with encouragement that banishes Greg’s worries like a flashlight banishes monsters from the closet. "Come along, Greg. Miss Lucy will watch over Wirt."

Greg glances at his sibling, motionless except for the rise-fall of his chest under the blanket. He doesn’t want to leave Wirt alone… except Wirt _won’t_ be alone, because Lucy will be here, and she’s older than Greg so she can probably convince Wirt that everything’s okay easier than Greg can. “Okay,” Greg nods after a beat. “Don’t jump on his bed while he’s asleep, though, he hates that.”

The piebald boar exits first, propping the door open for Mother and for a pig carrying a tea set into the green wagon. Impressed at the latter pig’s ability to balance a tray with a kettle and several cups and saucers, Greg whistles under his breath. There’s a joke somewhere…

“Come come, my teacup piglet,” Mother clucks, flicking the spout of Greg’s headpiece. “Dinner time.”

Confusion wrinkles Greg’s forehead. Nevertheless, he kicks up his heels and gambols past Mother’s ankles in the direction of the nearest trough.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

_Wirt…? You can open your eyes, dear. You’re safe._

B...Beatrice? No. Beatrice would never call Wirt “dear.” Then who…

_It’s dinner time, Wirt. Your brother is waiting for you outside._

Where _is_ Beatrice? Shouldn’t she be here? She’d know what to do to get them out of this, she’d never fall for anybody’s deceit… Wirt misses her. A lot.

“Listen, newbie, I don’t mind waiting but I’m pretty hungry too so if you could—ah! There’s some open eyes! Welcome back, sleepyhead.”

The face grinning at Wirt belongs to a Tamworth sow, ginger-bristled with rounded ears and freckles speckling her snout and unnervingly human green eyes. Wirt thinks _Beatrice?_ one more time, and then shakes his head, unsure why the thought intruded when Beatrice is—was?—a bluebird, and this lady is a pig...

And _he_ is ALSO a pig!

“Whoa, dear, settle down. You’ll hurt yourself.” The sow lifts a foreleg over the edge of the cot to still Wirt with a hoof, which is unnecessary, because Wirt has been mummified in a knitted yarn blanket too snugly to struggle. “You really _are_ safe, alright? I won’t hurt you. No one will.” 

He wriggles aggressively regardless, hating how his four limbs fold ventrally in a fashion so alien and so utterly _not_ how they’re supposed to. A furious fearful screech clamors at the back of his throat when he tries to rip the blanket off but _can’t_ because he has no fingers anymore. “Let me go,” he shrills—wincing at the swine-like squeal that echoes in his words. “I don’t want to be here, you can’t keep me prisoner—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the rust-colored pig mutters. She bites the handle of a kettle waiting next to her on a crate and effortlessly pours tea into a ceramic cup glazed with daisies, which she then offers to Wirt. 

The stifling perfume of chamomile and vanilla hits Wirt as if someone is smothering him to death with an herb-stuffed pillow. He wrinkles his nose and refuses to drink. “Nice try. I’m n-not sipping that poison.”

The sow pours a cup of tea for herself and slurps from it obnoxiously, smacking her lips. “Mmm… tasty poison.”

“Maybe… m-maybe the poison is in my cup, not the tea! You think I’m some ignorant whelp, eager to taint my tongue with witch’s brew?!”

“I think you’re a frightened little boy who saw something he didn’t like,” the ginger pig quips, knocking back another mouthful of tea. “Go on, drink it. It’ll calm you down. And if there _were_ poison anywhere in this wagon, you’d be able to smell it—I guarantee.”

That might be true… Wirt smells chamomile and vanilla, yet as he wrestles his pulse he’s additionally aware of a complex medicinal briskness and the smoothness of oiled wood, the bread flour scent of the Tamworth lass, the cleanliness of laundered cotton and the weird mix of signatures on the blanket he’s swaddled in. Nothing strikes his instincts as “poison.”

But that doesn’t matter. There’s a danger greater than poison here.

“I know what I saw,” Wirt starts unsteadily, glaring at his tea-serving captor. “You can’t fool me with cutesy tea sets—”

“My name is Lucy,” the sow interrupts cheerfully, “and you most certainly do _not_ know what you saw.”

She does not say this threateningly, or nastily; in fact, Lucy sounds more like Beatrice does when she’s being patronizing—as if Wirt is a foolish child crying at made-up monsters. Shame burns his enormous dish-shaped ears.

“H-How do you know what I… what I _think_ I witnessed?”

Lucy finishes off her tea and peers meaningfully at Wirt’s untouched cup. “Let’s take this step by step, shall we? First, you’ve turned into a pig, which surprises every trespasser when they arrive.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I was f-following my brother—” 

“Then, you see someone come out of the big golden wagon. A woman. The tallest, grandest lady you’ve ever laid eyes on, so tall that you know she’d tower over you even if you _weren’t_ a pig. But that isn’t what terrifies you.”

Wirt’s vocal cords petrify. His gaze flits to the door behind Lucy, as if speaking of the eldritch creature will summon her. Shudders resume their dance up his spine. “No…”

“What terrifies you,” Lucy murmurs, her green eyes serious and shadowed by the gas lamp’s glow, “is her hideousness.”

Wirt’s heart kicks like a mule. Lucy has to snatch his teacup off the cot so that his sudden jolt doesn’t slosh liquid all over the mattress. “Yes!” he cries, legs thrashing inside his blanket. “You… you’ve seen it too! I’m not crazy! Wh-Why is nobody else _bothered?!_ They act as if—”

“They don’t see the same thing?” Lucy supplies, quirking an ear. “Well, they don’t. _You’re_ the odd one out.” Wirt’s exhales tear from him in short, shallow wheezes, and Lucy rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Look, Wirt… I get it. I was you six months ago. I’d run away from home, life was tough… I thought everyone was out to hurt me, and nothing good could possibly happen. I was in an ugly, dark place. So, when I showed up _here…_ that’s all I could see. Ugliness and darkness.”

“Reality,” Wirt cuts in harshly. 

Lucy shakes her head. “Pessimism,” she corrects him. “But then I realized that what I _thought_ I saw wasn’t real… everything was warped through my perspective, like light through a dirty window. All the others in the caravan basked in pure sunlight—and I was the person stuck on the wrong side of the glass. Understand?”

“You’re telling me that _I’m_ the hallucinating nutcase?” squeaks Wirt. “That’s… that’s absurd. Of course you’d tell me I’m wrong—you all worship that _thing!”_

“Mother is not a ‘thing,’ young man,” Lucy barks. “If you could get a hold of yourself, you’d know that she’s the most beautiful person you’ll ever have the pleasure to meet. She’s the one who tucked you in and brought you in here, for your information. She’s the one who had tea made and food brought for you. She knew you were like me, that you’d be freaked out, because she _cares._ If Mother actually wanted to harm you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

“I don’t believe you. What I saw was real…”

“Why is it real? What makes it more believable than what I'm telling you? Because it's _dark?_ Cynicism is its own sort of delusion. You're the one who's confused, Wirt… trapped on the wrong side of the window." Pity falls heavy on Lucy’s features. “I wish I could convince you. It would be so nice for you and your brother to have dinner with us all…”

“Where’s Greg?” Wirt asks, a fresh sliver of panic stabbing his chest. “What did you do to him?”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The long, rectangular troughs are positioned like picnic tables in a ring around camp, so that pigs can join from either side to gab with neighbors. It’s a true barnyard cafeteria, complete with squat hay bales for piglets to sit on and twinkling lights strung from wagon to wagon to chase evening shadows back toward the fields. All the pit fires that’d been distributed in the area are gone, replaced by a single bonfire that crackles merrily in the center and tosses fistful of yellow sparks toward the blue-black sky. A heady sense of _belonging_ weaves the atmosphere. It is _vastly_ different from those miserable nights in the forest, shivering on wet leaves and sneezing out the dreadful pall of mud and moss. Greg likes this place. This place is _lovely._

To Greg’s sole disappointment, however, all the troughs are currently empty. His stomach complains loudly as he plunks himself to the left of an inky black Berkshire boar, who is busy wrangling his two sooty piglets. “Aw, man… isn’t it time for supper? What’re we havin’—a ghost buffet?”

“You’re new!” one of the piglets says, ducking under his father’s stocky forelimb to boop Greg with his snoot. “Hi hi, did you come from the fair?”

“Yeah, me and Wirt were at the fair all day! But we didn’t win any prizes, and we were super hungry, so we came here… is Mother putting the soup on, or what?”

The Berkshire boar hums with amusement and displaces Greg’s teapot cap to rub vigorously between his ears with a hoof. It’s sort of like getting a noogie, but not as horrible. “I recall my first meal in the caravan… are you ready for a surprise, new piglet?”

Greg’s tummy growls rudely. “Is the surprise food?”

Mother strides to the bonfire, waving to the pigs that toss her their respectful hellos during breaks in their bundled conversations. She has tied back her hair with a humble kerchief, and dons a white apron smudged with cooking stains, but she is still ethereally pretty—exactly like the well-groomed ladies on the baking shows that Greg’s mom watches. A shiny metal triangle dangles from one of her hands. Would she let Greg ring it, if he asked nicely? He bets that she would…

“ _Shh,_ she’s gonna do it, she’s gonna do it!” the other black piglet enthuses, fidgeting in place. “You’re gonna love this part!”

Mother rings the bell, its delightful sound shimmering across the crowd. Greg blinks—and the troughs are filled with mountains upon mountains of delicious food. More food that he could eat in one sitting. So much food that he can’t even imagine a caravan of pigs could finish it all. His jaw unhinges in shock. Where does he start?!

Dinner rolls glisten with melted butter and drizzled honey. Apples of ruby-red and polished green are stacked by jewel-bright grapes and slices of yellow cheese. Grilled corn dusted with garlic and salt shares a platter with stuffed baked potatoes and caramelized onions and mushrooms. There’s maple-baked beans, roasted slices of pumpkin, zucchini and acorn squash, yam casserole, sausage links… heaven! Greg is in heaven! This is better than his birthday and Thanksgiving combined!

His poor saliva glands ache and overflow. He wants to take a bite—of everything, simultaneously—but he hesitates with drool dribbling down his chinny-chin-chin. Wirt isn’t here yet. At home, their family never starts eating until everybody is seated. It’s bad manners otherwise.

“What’s the holdup, young chap?” the Berkshire dad inquires, mashed potatoes already smeared along his tusks. His piglets are hanging off the rim of the trough, spiral tails wagging with joy as they gnosh on the same slab of meatloaf and peas. “Mother rang the bell—time to dig in!”

“My brother…” Greg peeks at the green wagon, bathed in wholesome firelight. “I want to save some for him.”

“There’ll be plenty for him, too!” says the first piglet, licking gravy from his cheeks. “There’s always plenty! Forever and ever!”

“You’re a _pig,_ my boy,” exhorts the boar. “No need for stuffy human manners here. If you’re hungry, then eat!”

A block of cheddar is calling Greg’s name… “Alright. Since we’re pigs…”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Wirt manages to spring from his blanket through sheer force of will. Sadly, his burst of energy—once expended—leaves him gasping and blinking spots from his eyes as he’s blinded by a wave of lightheadedness. He’d thought it was the blanket that overheated him, but now that he’s free of it an exhausting fever swelters beneath his skin. Curse these past miserable nights, shivering and exposed to the merciless elements!

Lucy easily tackles the lean boar with her more impressive bulk, and he instantly fights her, kicking out at anything he can hit despite the grey seeping into his vision. “Unhand me—I mean, unhoof me! Let me go!”

““You—vicious—javelina—! You think I’m going to let you waltz out there raving like a lunatic? There are _families_ in this caravan! You’ll upset them!”

“I don’t care! I’m grabbing my brother, and we’re leaving!”

Lucy shifts her weight and crushes air from Wirt’s lungs. He knocks his hooves on the wooden floor in surrender; the Tamworth sow huffs and does not budge. “Your brother is _fine._ You can both leave if you truly want to, but I think that’d be mighty selfish.”

“S… Selfish?” Wirt croaks. “How am I… being selfish?”

“Running out of here after insulting Mother? Not letting your brother enjoy supper? I can smell your fever, Wirt. You two need help, regardless if you’ll admit it.”

Wirt’s two nubby tusks blur into four when his eyes spill their tears. Is… is this situation all his fault? He hadn’t stopped Greg from running into the fair. He’d been so preoccupied with finding a way back out that he’d ignored how hungry Greg was… how hungry they _both_ were… Wirt had gotten them hopelessly lost in the forest, had failed to find basic shelter or provide for his little brother, and was too paranoid and weak to solve any problems, and now… 

_Greg_ had led them out of that creepy fair. _Greg_ had discovered the caravan. Greg, who always saw the bright side, the half-full side, the silver lining, _Greg_ is out there with the others about to devour a communal meal and _Wirt_ is flattened like a pancake in a wagon, flipping out over nothing. As usual. 

Wirt doesn’t have some secret, special insight. If Lucy is telling him the truth, then the reason Wirt saw… what he saw… is all Wirt’s problem. His own ridiculous, sour cynicism. 

“You said you _used_ to be like me. Do you… see everything? H-How it’s meant to be seen?”

Lucy hums, sympathetic. “I do. Took me a few days to adjust, but it got better. It was as if a ball and chain had been unshackled from my soul. One day I looked at Mother, and… there she was.”

It sounds so simple. Wirt almost believes it. Almost.

The boar sighs, staring at his cloven feet. “Will you let us go? After we eat?”

"You can leave whenever you want, once you’re well," Lucy answers, openly disturbed. "Was that not clear? I’m only sitting on you because you were darn near foaming at the mouth ten seconds ago. You aren't _prisoners._ Goodness, Mother offers you food and shelter and you act like there’s a demon hunting you..."

“Sorry,” Wirt deadpans. He cranes his neck to make eye contact with Lucy, swallowing a surge of dizziness. "But what… IS… 'Mother'? Why does she turn you into pigs? Why are you okay with it?"

"It's part of the magic," Lucy says. "Mother always provides." 

The sow briefly hesitates to let Wirt up. She has to steady him when he rocks on his hooves, half-delirious with anemia and lack of proper sleep. “One meal,” Wirt announces stubbornly, adjusting his cone hat so it stands more upright on his crown. “One meal, and maybe one night. We’re not joining your caravan officially, or whatever.”

“Suit yourself,” harrumphs Lucy. There’s a clever twinkle in her eye, nonetheless, that betrays how assuredly she’s convinced that Wirt will change his mind.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Three centimeters… two… then one…

Greg’s tongue is nearly touching a square of cheddar on a cracker when he catches the squeal of swinging hinges. There’s Wirt and the russet lady-pig leaving the green wagon! Wirt is awake! Those biscuits and tea must’ve done him wonders. In the future, Greg will always check to make sure they have plenty of snacks before they run out on adventures in the forest. Look how big Wirt’s eyes are getting, taking in the panorama of plenty steaming-sizzling-gleaming before his starved self…

Wirt reels backward into the ginger sow. His ribs heave as though he is drinking in air to scream all over again. His focus snaps back and forth from trough to trough, eyelids opening wider and wider—

“Wirt! Over here! I saved you a seat!” Greg hops up and down for Wirt’s attention, to let him know that he isn’t lost in the sea of swine. Wirt sure hates being alone in social situations. “Can you BELIEVE all this food?! C’mon, I think there’s some chicken nuggets…” The pink piglet roots into the trough, nosing around morsels for something that Wirt’s stomach can handle. “Oh, sweet, I found your favorite—”

Several pounds of teenage boar rocket into Greg, flinging the piglet from the trough and onto the ground. Greg sees stars—literally and figuratively, as he hits his head very hard and also he is flat on his back with the night sky draped above him. 

“Don’t eat that!” Wirt snarls, pinning Greg under his feet. “Don’t eat ANY of it! Don’t even touch it, Greg!”

Patience wilted, the caravan buzzes into an angry uproar. They’re all glaring, urging Wirt to admit what’s wrong, shielding the curious eyes of their piglets as the little ones curiously peep over the troughs. Wirt is preparing to hoist Greg up by his scruff—and freezes at a sharp, harsh whistle from Mother.

“That is _enough,_ little boar. We will not abide your shameful manners.” The woman has her fisted hands propped on her hips, disapproval drawn into each line of her silhouette. The frown on her bow-shaped lips makes Greg want to apologize profusely, and he hasn’t done anything wrong. “If you cannot comport yourself like a mature young man, you may take your dinner in the wagon and join us when you’ve calmed down.”

“Wirt?” Greg mumbles from the dirt. “You’re scaring me.”

“I can’t let you eat,” Wirt rants instead of reassuring his sibling. He’s worse than he was before he fainted; has his sickness spread to his brain? Were the biscuits not enough to restore his hunger-driven insanity? “Why am I the only one that SEES it?! I can’t let you eat it, Greg, I _can’t…_ ”

Mother’s hand swoops in to snag one of Wirt’s ears; he shrieks an earsplitting squeal and whirls as if to bite the slender wrist behind him, but Greg leaps up to hug Wirt as best he can with his front legs. “Wirt, simmer down! You’re acting really weird, it’s just your blood sugar!”

“BLOOD!” Wirt screams. “BLOOD, IT’S BLOOD—”

“Let him go, Greg,” Mother orders mildly. She separates the boys with her free hand, cautious not to allow Wirt to bite her or to let one of Wirt’s flying hooves strike Greg. The blonde woman isn’t _mad…_ she seems bitterly disappointed, as though her heart has cracked from Wirt trampling on it. “He needs a longer time out than I thought. This way, little boar…”

Wirt is sobbing, straining in Mother’s grip to get to Greg as she drags him like a tantrum-throwing child to the green wagon. “Blood, it’s all blood, don’t eat it Greg please don’t eat it don’t eat the blood _please_...”

Lucy is the one who embraces Greg to comfort him after Mother has shut a squalling, struggling Wirt into the infirmary wagon for the remainder of the evening. She plants a pig-kiss on his forehead and is kind enough not to make fun of how Greg sniffles from shock. “I’m sorry you had to see that, dear. It embarrasses me to say that I’ve been in your brother’s shoes before… but cheer up! He’ll get better. I know it.” 

Greg snorts up a bunch of snot, blinking mist from his eyelashes. Lucy and the Berkshire boar accompany him to his spot at the trough, and tell him caravan stories to keep his mind off the muffled cries that cut into the mood like somebody shattering glass at a distance. He eats until he can’t fit another bite. Once dinner has concluded, the entire sounder is contentedly stuffed and soporific, and Mother gives all of them pats or good-night kisses or both as they lay out bedrolls and nest down for a peaceful slumber. Warm and sated at long last, Greg falls asleep to rhythmic porcine snoring and the fading crackles of the bonfire as it smolders itself to pale grey ashes... 

But Wirt… 

Wirt stays awake all night… hungry and feverish and ill with the thought of his brother feasting on buckets upon buckets of thick, rotten blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we'll probably see everything from Wirt's perspective next, so we'll know once and for all how much he's totally overreacting. imagine thinking food was blood smh

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off a dream I had, so... blame the future messed-up things that happen on my subconscious mind.
> 
> The ambiguity of the setting is intentional. This story could take place during the timeline of the show, or it could be happening after the boys escaped the Unknown, and they've returned in their dreams as they do in the comics. Or it's a separate AU. Whatever you want.
> 
> If things get very graphic, I will try to publish them in their own chapter so that people can skip the gore and move right along with the story.
> 
> But of course there won't be any gore! The pigs are nice, and Mother is nice too! And nothing is wrong. :)


End file.
